


A Funeral

by milka121



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Gen, Maltran is not so bad trust me, Pre-Game(s), first encounter, smol!Alisha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milka121/pseuds/milka121
Summary: At a royal funeral of a commoner, Maltran comes to a decision.Pre-game, how Maltran decided to take care of Alisha.





	A Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> I played a little with the idea of Alisha's mother. I don't have time to check if this fic is canon compliant, but from what I recall, there is little known about Alisha's mother other than she was a commonner and that she was absent. So I'm headcanoning her as dead. Welp.  
> Also, I'm not one of the people who see Maltran as the Big Bad™, so if you are looking for that here... well, you won't find it. But I am well aware that she is supposed to be a hellion now.

Maltran was finding going to the funerals less and less entertaining.

As a knight and the Blue Valkyrie, she was important enough for the royal family to invite her more often than not, though many people of the aristocracy were still regarding it as scandalous - she was almost a commoner herself, after all, with her family not in the years of glory anymore. But it was probably the reason why she was fitting here today. At the royal funeral of a commoner, elevated to such an enormous level… it almost felt ironic.

Maltran has heard the rumours. It wasn’t like the king was the most private person; he never denied being interested in many women, royalty or not. He had more mistresses than any devoted gossipmonger could count. Most of the time no one paid attention as to who the king was bedding as long as he did his job and allowed the council to take care of the rest. But this time, it was something different.

The woman - Maltran never caught her name - was beautiful, yes, but also ornery and uneducated, if not plainly stupid. The noblewomen whispered among themselves about her lack of manners and aberrant way of talking, about her loudness and insolent behaviour towards the nobility. _How can someone like that be allowed to walk among us like she's even?,_ Maltran has heard them months ago on some ball when they eyed the mistress enviously, no doubt seeing themselves in her place at the king’s side and wearing the exquisite superb dresses she was wearing. But Maltran was sure that none of them would be able to look like the mistress did; truly beautiful in the most natural of ways, completely unlike the rest of the women of the nobility with their obsession about seeking attention with their outfits. No, that woman was different.

And that was why she was now laying in the open coffin, the priest saying the last goodbye to her.

She got too greedy, too confident. She wanted to stop the war with Rolance; she even talked with the king himself about that. But the council couldn’t allow it.

Maltran glanced with no interest at the rest of the crowd in the shrine. Nobles with stark expressions, their children looking around with boredom and their wives faking tears ( _that bitch is finally gone, thank Lords_ ); the figure of the king positioned in the first row of chairs, the closest to the coffin. Maltran toyed in her mind with the idea that the king loved his mistress, but she abandoned it quickly. He didn’t care when she died, at least not enough to try to find the culprit responsible for treating the mistress to the poisoned pabulum. He didn’t care enough to be with her when she was giving birth to their only child and when she was trying to raise the girl in the palace full of people who wanted her dead.

Well, they succeeded. The girl would be all alone now - a five-year-old against the world.

Did it really took more than five years to finally come to it? By all rules the mistress and her child should both be dead by now. The kid got lucky enough to get to live a little bit longer. But someone will soon take care of that, Maltran was sure.

Who did explain to the child that her mother was dead? How did they do it? Did she know that without the king’s protection she will soon share the same fate?

Maltran supposed she should feel sad about it, but after all these years full of bloodshed and many, many funerals she found it difficult to mourn about yet another death. The world of the royalty is cruel and as much as she wished it was different, there was no place for the weak, not in the politics, nor on the battlefield. The girl will manage.

Or not. That wasn't Maltran’s concern.

She looked around, trying to find… Oh, there. The girl did indeed came to the funeral of her mother; she sat far away from the coffin - from the king - but she was there, a small figure amongst the adults. In her pink and white dress and with her shiny blonde hair she looked even more frail than usual. Maltran knew that the small princess inherited her mother's beauty. Even now, the girl could almost pass as a doll rather than a human: frozen in place, her hair braided high like a true child of a noble and her expression coolly blank.

But even from where she was, Maltran could see how the girl's big, expressive eyes were focused on the coffin. And she could almost _feel_ the piercing, insistent gaze _-_

Maltran shuddered, to her own surprise. Oh, she knew that look. She knew it so well. She have seen it on the battlefield multiple times; the look of a fallen soldier who refuses to surrender, even after seeing their whole squad torn to shreds. And Maltran have learned that they were the ones to fight in the most brutal and reckless way, not longer protecting anyone but their pride and seeking nothing but justice only they could execute.

The priest said something in his high, wearisome voice and the people started to raise from their seats, trying to get out as quickly as the etiquette allowed them to. Maltran paid no attention to that, her gaze fixated on the girl, still unmoving at her place. And after a second, Maltran came to a decision.

She strolled to the first row, her armour clinking as she was taking each step. The heads were still turning when she walked as if to tell her that she was not supposed to be there, even after all these years of serving in the military.

Maltran halted in front of the girl. She came to her knee, the poleyn clattering as it met the cold stone floor.

The girl with that big, green eyes finally tore her gaze off the coffin and focused on Maltran. The woman had once again a chance to appreciate the girl's seemingly emotionless expression, almost not fitting for the girl's age.

“Your highness,” Maltran said loud and clear, “will you do me the honour of allowing me to train you with all my might in this unsettling times?”

Maltran heard shocked gasps around them. Good. Now everyone will know that the girl is under Maltran’s protection. Untouchable.

The girl blinked, the fire in her eyes faltering for a moment, but never quite leaving them either. “Who are you?”

“I am Lady Maltran, the Blue Valkyrie, your highness,” she replied. Even when the girl was sitting on that chair, way too big for her, Maltran and she were nearly at the same eye level. And now, with the face of a naive child but the posture of a cautious soldier she seemed more of a royalty than the rest of the people in the shrine.

“Alisha Diphda accepts your custody,” the girl said in her childish, high voice.

And for the first time in years, Maltran felt something warm swarming in her chest.


End file.
